Note from the Editors

 

   SEEING RED 

    ENDU(RED) ADMI(RED)
    DESI(RED) WONDE(RED)
    RUMO(RED) ADO(RED)
    ENAMO(RED) INSPI(RED)
    DISCOVE(RED) SAC(RED)
    HUNGE(RED) WONDE(RED)
    EXPLO(RED) FEATU(RED)
    AUTHO(RED) SEA(RED)
    DA(RED) UNCENSO(RED)
    SOA(RED) ADVENTU(RED)

 

 

    


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To a Phoenix


Almost-burning bird,
I love your tantrums.
When you were hatched
and I was small, sister
to the hounds, we
withstood, stoic.
In a near-silent swoop,
clouds hustle above
fallen leaves.  I proclaim
a shift in bonding,
a turnaround in kin, in kind
to a sudden pressure rise. 
You know I, too, must expand,
be wiped across
an open field,
rust-colored, valorous.
Hush, wind, behold
these splays.  My reborn
altitude is an immaculate
canvas.  Taut feathers
have ridden its columns. 
Be with me, bird,
I don’t want to be
the only one with scars.


Bianca Diaz's chapbook, No One Says Kin Anymore, was published by Spring Garden Press in 2009.  Her poems currently appear or are forthcoming in Border Crossing, Mount Hope, Saw Palm and Waccamaw. Her work has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and for the Best of the Net anthology.  She is originally from Miami and now lives in North Carolina.


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